


All the songs you sang for me

by Derry Rain (smakibbfb)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Soft boys being soft, The Terror Bingo 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smakibbfb/pseuds/Derry%20Rain
Summary: In which Harry Peglar isexhaustedafter working through a bad storm and Thomas Jopson is a helpful friend.For Terror Bingo 2020: Henry Peglar
Relationships: Harry Peglar/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	All the songs you sang for me

His every limb, every joint, every muscle, every  _ hair _ aches. Looking around now, his own exhaustion is mirrored in the faces of every man at the tables now, crowding and jostling each other, wolfing down their meals like they haven’t eaten anything in weeks.

Harry feels almost too tired to eat; he pushes the stew around in his bowl with idle fingertip movements, resting his chin on his forearm as he stares at it. It feels like around him are men talking, shouting, chattering, slurping and he is doing his damndest to try and ignore the crush of noise around him. He is not new to this life. Long years at sea have taught him all the tricks to find peace amongst chaos, but right now that peace eludes him, even as oblivion threatens to take hold. Harry sighs. His head is beginning to throb. A couple of benches down, a red-faced and heavy-lidded fellow sailor catches his eye. He raises his mug at Harry with a wry half smile, as if in a toast.

They had enough to toast, Harry thinks. The storm had been a bad one, and that they had come through it without losing a single man near a miracle. Even so, there were easily half a dozen men in the sickbay with broken bones from where they had slammed against a piece of hull or been caught in a part of the rigging that could not be secured. Harry and his men had desperately raced to minimise the risk, but there would always be some bar, some post for a man to dash himself against as the ship lurched violently with the wind. His hands, arms, legs were raw with rope burn; even the ointments that he had begged from the doctor seemed to be barely helping over the scrapes and scratches of hours of hard labour, clambouring through the rigging.

He prods at a piece of meat in the stew, willing his weary body to lift the fork to his mouth. It seems an almost unfathomably monumental effort. As soon as he manages, the act of chewing is yet another bridge to cross. His stomach growls and he summons every ounce of will to choke down his meal. 

Though most of the tables are full, Harry has secreted himself away in a corner, and has most of the table to himself until another body drops down next to him, clanks a bowl next to his and pushes a mug of something his way, pushing against his near still fingers. Harry tilts his head, dropping it to his elbow. Jopson, he realises, and is not surprised to see the captain’s steward look down at him with a kind expression.

“Get that down you,” Jopson says, indicating the mug. “You look dead on your feet.”

“I’m not on my feet,” Harry complains. Jopson kicks him slightly, under the table. 

“Just do it, it’ll make you feel better,” he says.

Harry acquiesces. He doesn’t have the energy in him to argue further, even in jest. He takes a long swig of what he’s expecting to be tea, and almost chokes. He stares at Jopson in surprise.

“Thought you could do with an extra ration,” Jopson says, and winks when he turns away from the others, hiding his face from any curious gaze. It’s whiskey, not rum, and fine whiskey at that which Harry is drinking, and it sends a pleasant, warming tingle through his body. He smiles at the conspiratorial look on Jopson’s face.

“You’re a good man, Tommy,” he says. Jopson nods.

“I know,” he says, and grins. “Now drink up and eat up, or I’ll know why.”

“Yes, grandmother,” Harry says, but obeys anyway. 

The two men eat in silence for a few moments, and Harry begins to feel weary tension evaporate into a simple happy tiredness. Jopson’s thigh is pressed against his; the warmth of it a comforting presence against his own leg. 

One of their fellows makes as if he will join the two, but veers off at the last moment, with a mumbled “sorry”. Harry doesn’t bother to look up, but he’s fairly sure that the man had learned exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of Thomas Jopson’s patented Looks. He had been on the receiving end of too many of those in his own life to not know the quiet and very dangerous power behind those clear, grey eyes. He lets himself sag further against Jopson, all but lolling his head on the other man’s shoulder.

“You must be absolutely knackered,” Jopson says; his voice is low and fondly amused. “And frozen through to the bone I’d expect. You’re barely dried off.”

“Needed to eat,” Harry mumbles through his food. Perhaps it’s the whiskey, or the fact that Jopson is there, a barrier between him and the rest of the crew, but somehow the cacophony is quieted, and it seems easier to move now, easier to lift the fork between his bowl and his lips. He tries to radiate the gratefulness he feels to the man next to him, since he’s too busy eating to tell him so himself.

Jopson, for his part, is speaking enough for the both of them, and Harry knows that he’s not expected to respond. He suspects that Jopson doesn’t even particularly intend him to be listening, and certainly not to bother having an opinion on the Captain’s socks, or Lieutenant Little’s hair. Jopson’s voice is bright, but gentle, and Harry lets it wrap around him, like an embrace he can simply hide away in. He loves it when Jopson lets himself chatter like this. It’s not that the man is unusually reticent, but on a ship full of noise and chatter, he can usually be relied upon to be an ocean of calm. When he talks though, when he chooses to talk, he  _ talks _ , and it’s so difficult not to marvel at all of his small observations. His voice too, is something akin to a marvel, in those rare moments he lets his vowels shift and shape, to something that sounds so much more natural and familiar. Harry loves his voice, and the trust that that slipped accent shows in him. One day, he decided long ago, he would ask Jopson to read to him, somewhere quiet, where it’s just the two of them and Jopson needn’t feel like he has to put on a show for anyone. It’s a reverie that he returns to often as he reads; sometimes, it even feels like he can imagine those soft tones sounding through the words of his borrowed books.

“Are you finished?” Jopson asks, cutting through the haze. WIth a start, Harry realises that he is, and wonders when that happened. He swirls the last of the whiskey through his mug, chases the drop of it on his tongue. 

“Let me take care of that,” Jopson says. 

With the same efficiency he must show with the captain, he tidies the two of them away, in moments returning to help Harry to his feet. As he rises, all his exhaustion seems to return to him in a rush and he almost stumbles in Jopson’s arms.

“You’re all right,” Jopson's tone is soothing, like Harry is some ungainly newborn foal. “Come on, let’s get you to rest.”

Somewhere in the back of Harry’s mind, he knows that he should not be leaning quite so heavily on the other man, that Jopson probably is feeling something of the same tiredness that he is; the storm had affected every man on board, after all. The selfish part of him decides he doesn’t much care. Jopson’s arm is strong around him, and he wants nothing more than to let someone else take the lead after so long making orders and directing action. 

The trip to his bed is like an obstacle course, but Jopson weaves through bodies and boxes and hammocks with a dancer’s ease. Gently, but with an insistence which brooks no argument, he pushes Harry down into soft blankets, helps him remove his still slightly sodden boots. He tuts at the sight of them as he kneels. Harry can’t help but prod at him affectionately.

“It’s not good for you,” Jopson says, primly. Harry deliberately places his wet sock on Jopson’s knee. The steward makes a long suffering sigh, but doesn’t move it as he turns his attention to the other boot. 

“Get to sleep,” he chides. “We can do without you for a few hours.” Harry allows himself to be shifted, feels a blanket pulled up and tucked around his shoulders. If he feels a little too much like a child, the effect is still too comforting to mind overmuch. When Jopson straightens, he can feel the light press of a hand against his hair, a soothing combing motion, like his mother used to when he was small.

“Tommy?” he says, as sleep finally seems to be coming close, “Who looks after you?”

The hand stills. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” Jopson says.

He falls asleep to the ghost of a kiss upon his forehead.


End file.
